


A Handful of Dust

by celestialcello



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Author Has No Idea What's Happening, Author doesn't know how to write summary, Canon-Divergence: s2e07: Futamono, It's actually crack, M/M, Pretentious dialogues and monologues, Will Graham walks away from all this shit, angst no comfort, is this how you use tags?, no-beta, poor chilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialcello/pseuds/celestialcello
Summary: After being released from BSHCI, Will Graham made some expected and unexpected decisions that all ended up in undecided resolution.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 53





	A Handful of Dust

~*~

  
It was the crisp, sharp winter air that first greeted Will on the other side of BSHCI’s ominous gates. They closed behind him soundlessly, like ghosts of night retreating at the crowing of a rooster. But little did the world know it merely welcomed back another piece of spectre, the shadow of a shadow at the end of those marble steps leading back to earth.

In the pale light Will gazed up at the bleached sky until something burnt behind his eyes. Once. Twice. He blinked and someone else’s tear trickled down beside his nostrils. It washed away all the vindictive resolution and dark joy Will had mustered when he handed Fredrick Chilton the dreadful oracle, when he looked at Jack Crawford from behind his glasses not with silent respect but a newly found spite for his ignorance.

‘You didn’t have to find me, Jack, you just had to listen to me.’ He did not miss the sting of guilt as the proud man hunched ever so slightly. Will was lashing out. He knew Jack did not deserve his hatred as such. But here it was nonetheless. And after all the sleepless nights underground, the blaring lights, drugs in his vein, he had lost most of his ability to feel guilty.

Was freedom always so intoxicating, that man would be willing to trade everything to preserve it? Certainly not - more had been sacrificed in human history for ideals under different names. But perchance when all the glorious veils of higher aspiration were dissipated, freedom was the only thing left alongside that isolated darkness so deeply ingrained inside the notion of self.

However Will’s freedom came at a price. He guided Beverley Katz down the road of no-return in his first desperate attempt. At least part of him knew his late former colleague could never fully renounce her curiosity even if she did not immediately believe him, even if the case had been made air-tight. Once he planted the idea in her mind, she would begin to _look_ , and with blind misfortune, she _saw_ the unforgiving monster.

He then dispatched Matthew Brown using the latter’s obsession and need for approval, hoping the two would tear each other down to nothing but bloody detritus. His former psychiatrist’s survival on both occasions was... sobering, to say the least.

‘Did you beat yourself up about Beverley?’

When Jack threw the question his way as he leaned against the banister, Will considered it for a moment, then replied equally, ‘Not anymore.’ The half-truth echoed in the empty therapy hall save for the row of lonely, brutal cages. It would inevitably become true some day.

Jack frowned, but eventually said nothing.

Outside he shook his head, silently berating himself for sinking too deeply in thought. Will took a right turn and called a cab from a crossroad a few blocks away to avoid unnecessary curiosity. There was someone he did not need to think about, at least not yet. Not until he could finally gather together all his conflicting thoughts and shattered beliefs. Not until he could give a thorough vivisection of himself again, but this time on his own term.

~*~

  
‘Thank you for taking care of them. They seem happy.’ For a brief moment Will let himself be overwhelmed by the light-hearted joy of his pack, all warm furs and eager eyes. He smiled, but somehow felt hollow immediately afterwards. Alana’s eyes were firm, professionally distant, and Will understood.

‘Happy to see you.’ His one-time friend replied with a careful, observational tone. Will expected pain, a clench in his chest, but all he felt was a fleeting disappointment. Since when has he become so cold, like the concrete brick walls of his cell? Will could not pinpoint the moment anymore. Maybe he should not be able to, as this newly discovered stoicism and indifference were always in his mind. The intimate, all-too-vivid witness of human depravity was hardly ground for compassionate sympathy or communication, after all.

Of course he spotted the odd one out when the new dog with collar came up to him with a wagging tail, ‘Who’s this?

‘Applesauce. She’s mine. She likes applesauce. I rescued her.’

The last sentence was said a bit more forcefully than necessary on Alana’s part. There was ice in her voice. She avoided looking at Will as she re-attached the lead to Applesauce as if emphasising her ownership. Association came quickly to Will. He stood up, meeting Alana’s defensiveness with a tired, slightly nostalgic nod for a piece of past he left behind in the tomb.

‘Just like you rescued Doctor Lecter. The term rescue implied salvation and responsibility. Are you trying to protect her from me then?’

Though slightly stunned, Alana Bloom, always the strong and fierce soul as he had known her, refused to show it. He could see how in her head she reminded herself of the FBI branding him as an intellectual psychopath, ‘I was wrong about you.’

Will chuckled. Huffs of warm air were freed from his chest like shapeless, nameless white birds. His reply came distant, across the barren snow field of Wolf Trap.

‘I’m going to stay as far away from Hannibal Lecter as I can. Both of you are safe from me, if that’s what you want to hear.’

He paused, then added before leading his dogs back inside, ‘Goodbye, Alana.’

Behind him Alana remained wordless. A few moments later the sound of her car engine grew fainter and fainter along the driveway until it finally disappeared.

The belief of free will was a beautiful illusion to have around Hannibal. And if Alana wished to live it, he would prefer not to be the one to wake her up into a cold nightmare.

Will could see the vague outline of Hannibal’s plan, but this time he had the option to close his eyes.

Be free in the darkness. Be free in the acceptance of defeat.

He then settled down in his old recliner, staring into the void. For a while Will allowed his imagination to extend itself indefinitely into the future, and wondered what Alana would do with a fluttering amusement singing in his mind. He paused, realised that he had finally picked up the curiosity of outcomes in carefully controlled situations from his faithless friend.

~*~

  
_'What is the desire of vengeance but to exercise one’s own version of justice? To redistribute fortune and mercy to those one deemed worthy and to strip away the dignity of one’s enemy. These terms come with emotions. And emotions, when serving as guidance of judgements, often radiate the false equanimity comparable to that of rationality. Such practice, therefore, is in its essence one and the same as the atrocity of God, with the same arbitrariness and power. '_

Will frowned as he wrote down the word _power_ in his notebook under the warm halo of the lamp. These days he began to find comfort in writing down some of his thoughts from time to time, especially when the dogs were dozing off in one corner of the livingroom and his house quieted down. He had promised himself a reassessment of his own beliefs under the blessing of his recovered sanity and certainty of a truth outside the orbit of Hannibal’s existence. Yet oftentimes he could hear the man’s voice as he combed through his own emotions, desires and motivations. Was the boundary between understanding and self-induced manipulation so fragile? He wondered. Then he tore out the page, watched as it melted in the writhing flame. From experience Will knew better than to leave behind a physical replica of his thoughts.

A near-pathological need to remain in control of the environment was one of the driving forces of Hannibal’s murders, constantly creating situations where he could exercise his own judgement and shape the world accordingly. Yet the loss of such power was not necessarily a mortifying perspective for him. Hannibal would merely wait patiently for the right moment to arise then seize the chance with the same composed calculatedness and ruthlessness. His arrogance was a result of strength deprived then regained through one’s own device.

This was a man who had consummated his revenge. But beyond that, Hannibal lived with the hollowness of his inability to undo the consequence of actions by those who wronged him. He realised this limitation with absolute clarity. And it lended him his sarcasm, an endless ability to find joy in pushing others to the limit of their lesser intellectual or physical capacity.

Will felt as if he was looking down from a dizzying height amidst a storm into the unfathomable heart of the ocean, entrance to a world unrestrained by laws of land.

As the thought hit home, he rushed to the bathroom and threw up a pale concoction of saliva and stomach acid in a few dry heaves, again remembering the plastic tube breaching his esophagus. He had not found the appetite to eat yet.

Afterwards Will took a deep breath, stood up with slightly shaky legs and flushed the toilet. Looking into the mirror speckled with dried toothpaste like snowflakes, Will wondered to himself whether this reflex held any significance in his already overly intimate comprehension of Hannibal.

~*~

  
A chain of events quickly unfurled in the next few weeks of Will’s life, among the myriads of unravelling relationships and inexplicable emotions. His ponderance over his own anger and past belief had given him strength to ignore Jack’s persistent messages. Alana made a few phone calls and eventually paid him a visit filled with distrust when he formally resigned from his post at Quantico. At the end both decided that the bitterness of the encounter was not worth the effort. With a reminiscence of politeness they parted, possibly forever. Will drowned whatever he was feeling with enough whisky that night.

When his asset was unfrozen, Will hired himself a lawyer and made a legal appeal for financial compensation alongside a full exoneration. Ms. Geraldine McGlean was in her late forties, with compassionate hazelnut eyes, sharp Celine suits and the savoir-faire of controlling the narrative around her client. On the day of hearing, her powerful speech brought out the look of sympathy in the judges and tears in the eyes of one of the FBI representatives.

It was an expensive investment, but Ms. McGlean announced with confidence that the FBI's pocket would be deep enough to cover her fee.

‘And Mr. Graham, she half-joked when they concluded their first meeting in her minimalist, spacious office, ‘please allow me to remind you of the significance of your case in the history of justice. The honour would be mine to represent you, a man exonerated by the devil. ’

Jack Crawford appeared as well to vouch for the authenticity of the case, for which he was grateful. He looked more tired than Will had ever remembered him to be. Kade Prurnell would hardly give the man a good time. He thought about Miriam Lass, then wondered, again, what Hannibal was planning with Jack. He left almost immediately after giving his statement, citing Bureau duties.

Frederick Chilton, expectedly, was represented by his own lawyer. The man read from a one-page document confirming that ‘Mr. Graham was under the undue psychological influence of the Ripper’ both before his frame and during his incarceration. It was therefore ‘Dr. Chilton’s professional opinion that the de-facto victim could not be seen as fully responsible for his acts or decisions during the past months’. Will tried really hard not to snort in his seat.

After the court was adjourned, he caught Geraldine sharing coffee with a few of the journalists at the other end of the hallway outside. The sincere crinkles around her eyes vaguely reminded him of Freddie Lounds who would probably pounce on him once he left the building. Borderline persecutory paranoia was a minor side-effect, however, all things considered. When she rejoined Will, Geraldine assured him that the media would not intrude on his life and there would be no need to worry about his name should he want a fresh start. To that Will gave her a grateful smile, while thinking _as if it had not already been dragged through the mud a thousand times over._

He did not refuse Geraldine’s offer of a ride home when the whole ordeal ended at around 4p.m. . Throughout the two-hour drive, Will lost himself to the comedity of a man being declared innocent of misdeeds he had never committed. The deep-seated irony of reality being contorted into games of words and objects and then patched up again made part of him hysterical.

When the car pulled up in front of his house in the middle of nowhere, the lawyer reached over to give Will a comforting hug, clearly having mistaken Will’s silence for sorrow.

‘Go visit somewhere nice this Christmas, Mr. Graham,’ she said after they ended the brief embrace, ‘Near the sea perhaps. Very therapeutic, I assure you.’

Will nodded half-heartedly, almost whispered before leaving the vehicle, ‘I might. Thank you, Ms. McGlean.’

That night in his dream, Will saw a pair of pitch black claws reaching for him. The sharp talons penetrated the skin on his forearms, drawing scarlet trails of blood while soft, luke-warm flesh travelled over the healing abrasions of handcuffs around his knuckles.

He then felt something both cold and scorching on the back of his right hand, a feathery touch not unlike an apologetic kiss.

~*~

As December approached Will’s home at Wolf Trap failed, however, to regain an air of festival glee that seemed to be pervasive everywhere. The river port of the nearby town where he usually went for grocery seemed like the only place on earth sharing the sentiment, as the water froze and crowds faded.

Jack Crawford showed up in person one morning for the last time, with heavy bags under his eyes. Will listened impassionately to the story of a dead woman sewed into the uterus of a mare, her rotting heart an eerie bird cage. He wished Jack best of luck at catching his killer with an earnest expression.

At the back of his mind, he entertained himself with images of the rudimentary but symbolic design. A new freak in town. _And no, whoever sewed the body into the horse was not the killer but a repentant, a healer, even._

‘More people are going to die, Will. And you know you can change that.’

‘People are dying as we speak, and the power to stop this cannot be found in man. Try to put your faith in me in God instead, Jack.’

Jack Crawford’s sense of justice clearly bristled at Will’s unusual acerbity and nonchalance. Before he could speak again, Will interrupted the brief silence in the chilling air, ‘You still have Price and Zeller in the lab, Jack, you have the best of the best men in your department. And with me retired from the stage, Dr. Lecter was equally capable in what I did, if not more stable. For Christ’s sake, he’s already got you one of them. The Mural Killer?’

The mention of Hannibal, though in a professional way, sent waves of minuscule shivers down Will’s spine. Part of him wondered what the man’s next move would be. The other part dreaded when the monster in human suit would try to insinuate himself into his life again just as he once did to his fevered mind.

Jack squinted when Will brought the psychiatrist up, sensing something unusual, ‘You tried to kill him once, Will. You accused him of being a serial killer for months. What changed your opinion?’

‘You must have already read my medical evaluation from Dr. Chilton. It was the Ripper who made me think so. Miriam Lass could not remember who imprisoned her, and I had false memories planted in me. Think again before you want any more consultation from me, Jack.’

The other man opened his mouth but then closed it, taking a moment to silently accept the fact that he had lost another pony in his stable.

‘What are you planning to do next, then?’ Jack inquired, this time as a half-friend. His look temporarily distracted by the vast of withered forests stretching along the silver crust of snow.

Will hesitated. Having a future had not been a priority on his list recently. Money would not be a problem since he was due a handsome recompensation, thanks to Ms. McGlean. The head of the FBI Academy had persuaded him to retract the resignation. Now on the record he retired early due to health reasons, thus eligible for the pension scheme once he was of age. There was clearly Jack’s influence behind this unexpected generosity, but he had signed several NDAs for this in return as well. So it was probably even between them in this respect.

He would not come back to Jack’s grip again, not after he had finally understood the preciousness of being a free man. Showing truth to the eyes of the blind had thrown him down the pit last time, and Will was nothing if not a quick learner. Whatever Hannibal was planning, he had no intention to intervene nor participate this time.

‘Getting away from here sounds like a good start, my lawyer suggested it.’ Will fished out a pair of gloves from the pocket of his jacket, hastily pulling them on as an excuse to continue looking away.

Jack nodded curtly, ‘For a holiday or permanently?’

‘Perhaps both. Or perhaps I could never truly be away anymore.’

He thought about Hannibal again when he glanced at the stark, jagged black outline of the woods against the skylight. The blind judge burnt brightly at the top of his head, demanding his awe and revulsion every time he remembered, just like all of Hannibal’s tableaus. The recklessness and passion radiated like a dark sun.

Too many things happened between them both in light and in hiding, at the edge of illusion and reality. Will could not decide, even now, what to do. Maybe this way they could free themselves from each other.

Eventually Will extended his right hand to Jack, a feeble smile on his face. The two shook once through the gloves. The black SUV drove away in silence save for the crunch of snow and distant chirping of a winter wren.

~*~

  
On his resumed monthly trip to the fishing gear shop, Will was surprised when the owner, a man with grey hair and heavy hands who had known him for years as the eccentric but loyal customer, gave him a sympathetic tap on the shoulder before he left. The pity in his gesture irked Will, though he did not show it. He took it as a sign something else about him was excavated by the media.

He was less keen about keeping up with the news these days but when he returned, Will opened his computer and read all about Fredrick Chilton’s hidden identity as the violent cannibalistic murderer whose capture had cost the FBI three active agents. The TattleCrime article described in gruesome details (hallmark of Freddie) how a half-eaten Abel Gideon was found in the basement of Dr. Chilton’s house, a fully-equipped kill room. Apparently he was apprehended just in time at the border control. Will’s unfortunate frame and incarceration too was briefly mentioned close to the end. 

Will laughed like a madman until the dogs gathered around him, clearly disquieted. When his chest began to scream for air and his head spinned, Will reached for his bottle and relished the delightful burn in his throat and stomach as he gulped the liquid down. His clever fiend who cornered himself and emerged innocent and glorious. The devil who made the unthinkably idiotic choice to set free the only man who knew who he was.

 _Or maybe not so idiotic_ , Will gritted his teeth through the haze of alcohol. _For this man had stopped trying to convince anyone of his vision. For he now feared his fellow men more than the monster, and rightfully so_.

At that moment Will was unsure whether he was angered by Hannibal’s sheer arrogance in making such an assumption or by the fact he was right in his prediction. Or just the fact that he was a criminal at large. He would like to think it was all three so his rage was at least partially righteous. But somehow it did not sound entirely convincing even in his inebriated state. ‘I should kill you,’ he murmured to himself, again and again until he gave in to the stupor overcoming him like tides.

~*~

  
The next morning reminded Will why falling asleep on a table was not the best idea at his age. Apart from the familiar throbbing ache in the head, every single one of his muscles seemed to be screaming in soreness from such strained posture. He pushed himself up and stumbled into the kitchen in a few unsteady steps for a glass of water and ibuprofen.

He had to eat something, but habit made him turn on the coffee machine before all. As the bitter aroma seeped out, Will managed to locate a bag of supermarket toast and a new can of peanut butter in his cupboard. That would do for now. Five minutes later he sighed as the coffee sat comfortably hot in his tortured stomach, and chewed his toast mindlessly until the alcoholic haze was no longer able to fend away his thoughts.

_What now?_

He had not, in fact, seen or heard the man who was the bane of his downfall ever since his release. Apparently Hannibal had sent to the court a personal statement in which he generously defended Will’s innocence. Other than that, there were only a few photos from TattleCrime.com and occasional quotes on Baltimore Sun articles for his consultative role in BAU since the human mural case. All those wild speculations, among them Freddie’s being the most abhorrent and outlandish as always, made Will wonder why they were to date still alive.

Or maybe Hannibal was saving them for his Christmas dinner, ha. Will finished the last bit of his toast, mirthlessly amazed at how little the thought bothered him. He was only happy that for the foreseeable future Hannibal would not find him on his list of guests ever again, until when he decided to turn Will into a tableau.

But the coffee turned sour in his mouth as Abigail’s ghost resurfaced. Will had never cared about family, but the idea of being able to protect someone was almost an irresistible distraction from the destructive urges he inherited from a thousand killers. When the girl coldly recognised him as her father’s shooter, Will could not mind less - he loathed himself a thousand times more than she could imagine. At least this time something potentially nice came out of the bloodshed, and he could live with that. When Hannibal pitched to him the idea of legal guardianship, part of Will grew hopeful, though for what he did not understand by then.

Just because the idea represented by Abigail outweighed his actual care for her did not mean Hannibal could freely take it away. For a mind like Will’s, the two were almost identical. To become the point of balance in someone else’s life was the equivalence of regaining his own stability by proxy.

He closed his eyes at the table, and pictured throttling Hannibal, not with machination but his own hands, crushing the man’s windpipe, watching the last flicker of malicious light fading away from those bottomless eyes. But his own eyes flipped open with a gasp when in his imagination Hannibal’s face contorted into a fond smile as the last breath left his lung.

 _See_. He heard his own voice in the aftermath of this brightly-lit nightmare.

The rules of their game had changed when the Ripper took credit of all his murders in the past few years. Whatever Will’s decision might be, he doubted if the doctor would be surprised. Hannibal wanted a friend, just as he told Chilton in the heat of the moment of his release. He put Will in prison as an efficient solution to an imminent threat. He freed him as a prospect of an equal who would accept him after whatever plan of retribution Will could conjure up.

Recognition. Acceptance. Companionship. Hannibal’s capriciousness and cruelty defied all conceivable categories, existing beyond the boundary of words in the lonely, intricate vacuum of thoughts, emotions and imageries. The euphoria of being finally embraced as a whole by another mind was probably well worth the risk for him. How long must it have been? A decade? Two-scores of years? A whole life?

Will balled his hands into fists and then released them, his forehead burrowed by a deep frown, tasting at the back of his tongue the same bitterness. Two identically different solitudes.

_No._

He scrambled up from his chair to his bedside table for the phone and punched in Jack’s number instead of locating it in the contact book. His thumb hovered over the keypad in a furious shiver, blood rushing to his brain, telling him to drown Hannibal in his own hubris.

Then he let it go. The gadget made a muffled thump on the floor that sounded distant in the breaking morning.

But isn’t the notion of right and wrong meaningful even outside the human lexicon? Something absolute that provided the foundation of feelings? The rule of society was made based on the belief in such concepts that are independent of behaviours, for otherwise any actions were but a product of choice. And all choices would by nature be neutral if the opposite were true.

_Was it wrong for a lion to chase an antelope, though?_

Justice and Hannibal seemed to form a perfect dichotomy in Will’s life, threatening to subvert all his beliefs. No, it was not even an opposition. The world as Hannibal saw it was singular, essentially disconnected from any conventional notions. Will stood in the middle of his room, ignoring how Winston scurried over upon perceiving the disturbance. The floor was fragmenting away beneath his feet, and for a moment Will felt himself trapped underneath.

~*~

  
He spent the rest of the day chopping more than enough firewoods. Soon the sheath of sweat that soaked through his layers became a persistent reminder of prickling coldness. Will wishfully ignored it as each breath became more effortful than the last one, gladly living those moments where he could not think consistently. Apparently to distract himself from Hannibal required more tiresome activity than fishing and fixing a boat motor.

By the time he eventually stopped, the sun was already sinking, dousing the sky with fading crimson and bruising purple. Will tossed his tool among the haphazard pile of timbre and made his way back indoors for a shower, then dinner. Or more alcohol. The dogs would also need water and food refilled, but that could be fixed quickly.

As the warm steam cradled him in among the white-tiled walls of the bathroom, Will closed his eyes. His muscles singing under the much-needed heat. His mind, however, raced again into the darkness.

And in that moment Will understood there was never an option of looking away. When he chose to not warn Alana about his suspicion, when he turned Jack away knowing the man would hardly succeed in his years-long endeavour without him, the relief of freedom became nothing but a figment of his imagination.

There would only be Hannibal, standing at the center of another dimension intangible to most but had engulfed him a long time ago, an iridescent black born out of the dust of light.

And then everything quieted down. He turned off the shower, quickly rubbed himself dry and wrapped the damp towel around his waist.

_Someone just arrived._

Will took the gun taped beneath his sink and pushed open the white wooden door more calmly than he expected himself to be. Thanks to the bare feet, he managed to move along the wall of the short corridor without much noise save for the occasional creaks. The sounds made by his pack were not hostile but rather excited, suggesting the uninvited guest would have a familiar face. Nonetheless he held the 9mm Glock up, pressing his fingers into the cold metal until it turned warm in his palm, his heartbeat steady. _Three, two, one_. He turned around the corner at the end.

In the middle of the living room littered with his own turmoils stood the eye of the storm, dressed in a red cashmere sweater and a pair of impeccably ironed beige tweed pants. Traces of snow were still visible around the heel of an otherwise spotless pair of oxfords.

‘My apologies, I seem to have intruded on an inconvenient moment. Would you like to get changed before we speak, Will?’ His visitor seemed to be more concerned with Will’s state of nudity than the lethal weapon. For a moment Will believed Hannibal even smiled. That _bastard_. He swallowed down the bile of emotions rising up his throat and convinced himself to be enraged.

‘You are being terribly rude, Doctor Lecter.’ Will’s voice was low and hoarse, his posture unyielding as the dogs became uncertain and watched their exchange silently. ‘You once asked me if it’d feel good to kill you. Do you want to speak about that?’ He noticed that Hannibal had left his coat neatly folded over his right arm, and became momentarily distracted to analyse the motive. To avoid the dog hair everywhere else seemed like a satisfying enough explanation. He took another look and found no broken window. Of course Hannibal could be a master lock-picker, or maybe he simply kept a copy of the key to his house.

The other man nodded good-naturedly to the threat, half-closed those prying eyes then looked at Will again, expression inscrutable, ‘You have given that some thought.’

So many times Will had. Like Sisyphus, his mind and imagination would reach the end of the travail only for his body to fall back into the hard reality. He had lost the taste of righteousness with his late decisions. For now he was probably putting up a hopeless, if not hypocritical fight. The anger that gripped his body slowly recoiled, giving way to self-loathe and uncertainty. Still he refused to move. This is his house, _god damn it_.

‘Haven’t you?’ Will retorted, both a taunt and a genuine question.

‘With acceptance. Certainly you do not expect the disgrace of repentance from me. Or do you prefer lies?’ Hannibal’s gaze never left Will’s face for a second as he spoke, focused and serene like the therapist he was. Although this was merely an act out of necessity, Will could not avoid but feel as if there was a hint of appreciation, as if Hannibal was studying him, committing the image to his memory for a future sketch. He shivered, and knew that Hannibal did not miss the gesture. A battle lost, for now.

‘I prefer you to leave now, Hannibal. But what use would that be since you invited yourself in first.’ To save himself the shame Will chose to lower the gun, mindful of not moving his finger away from the trigger. Vulnerability was not a great suit to wear when dealing with Hannibal, as proven by his experience. Clothing would be a descent first step towards forging an equal ground. He reached over from where he stood and foraged a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans from his bed. His underwear lay in the drawer chest just a few steps away, but Will would rather put up with his old boxer for a couple more hours than getting any closer around Hannibal, who tilted his head in consideration of this provisional retreat.

‘Very well. Please take your time then.’ With his back turned Will could still recognise the smugness in his nemesis’ reply, outlining an invisible smirk. He almost, _almost_ , wanted to charge right over and throw his fist in the man’s face, even if just for the surprise value.

He did not. Casting a dark look at the innocent dogs, Will disappeared into the bathroom once again.

~*~

  
When Will reemerged sans the firearm, Hannibal seemed to have finally overcome his repulsion of furs and settled regally in one of the two armchairs by the fireplace, long, slender fingers laced together. His coat draped from the back. _And of course the armchairs were angled in perfect symmetry, what was he expecting?_

But Will had already stared at the chiascuro of firelight on the man’s chiselled face for longer than polite before he could stop and fume at himself. Hannibal tilted his head, looked up expectantly, choosing to speak at the exact moment when his host’s silent embarrassment was burning at its fiercest, ‘Do you object to the seating arrangement, Will?’

‘I object to more than that regarding this evening.’ Will sat down as well, recourse to sarcasm to mask his concession, stubbornly refusing eye contact. A conversation with Hannibal was doomed to happen from the start, but in all the scenarios he had pictured it was nothing like this, an ad-hoc yet carefully choreographed fencing; two animals circling each other unsure of who the prey was.

In most of Will’s imagined worlds, neither of them survived the night, and he bared his teeth in a lopsided smile to that thought.

Hannibal slowly nodded in seeming agreement, his own eyes fixated on the fireplace as well, leaving them deceptively warm with specks of orange. He had rolled up his sleeves just above the forearms, and beneath the crumpled wool coiled two pink scars like snakes. Will frowned: the cuts were deeper than he had expected. Matthew Brown did get the better of the Chisapeake Ripper, so it seemed.

‘I am sure you have questions.’

Will let out a dry chuckle, lied back in his seat, producing a staccato beat on the armrest with his nails, ‘Unfortunate for you, you could not answer most, if any of my questions. But tell me this: why are you here tonight? To invite me to your Christmas party?’

‘I’m worried about you, Will,’ Hannibal looked at him again in his usual expressionless yet thoughtful way. His tone betrayed neither sincerity nor hypocrisy. ‘And a natural curiosity when it comes to your recent silence. Lastly, for your peace of mind, I do not host Christmas parties. You missed the New Year’s Eve dinner last year but your company would be much welcomed as a friend this time.’ He winced in distaste as he spoke about the alluded festival of red poinsettia and green mistletoe. It was both pretentious and weirdly endearing at the same time. After all, imagining Hannibal, embodiment of irreverence, celebrating Christmas in the shrine of his house was too ironic. Will found his urge to laugh more unsettling than most of the events so far.

But he only barely managed not to gawk when Hannibal said the word friend. This man was, among other things, plainly, impossibly, unbelievably _irritating_. ‘Do you always break into your friend’s house, Doctor? I specifically remembered locking my front door so think before you speak.’

Hannibal had the gut to look slightly offended, ‘I did not keep a copy of your key out of nefarious motives, Will. And I would prefer it if you refrain from calling me a burglar.’

The sheer shamelessness amazed Will, ‘Your actions are not always born out of any motives other than a caprice. And if you don’t mind I would call the dinner a pass this year as well, unless you have other plans to make me join the table. On a side note, weren’t you worried when I pointed the gun at you?’

‘Duly noted. I would have, actually, if you had not rebuffed Jack so effectively,’ came the suave reply. Will believed that exhaustion was probably taking a toll when he detected something akin to happiness in the doctor’s voice. To dispel the illusion, he locked his own eyes into Hannibal’s, searching for signs of what the monster was intending to achieve. A move that was proven misjudged as Hannibal’s expression relaxed into contentment with the long-waited contact, and something else. Will chose one of the prints placed along the bookshelf as his new visual focal point to avoid understanding.

‘And that gave you faith and courage to think you could come here? Hilarious, like the rest of your puns at dinners.’ And the slight twitch around the corner of Hannibal’s mouth gave Will infinite satisfaction. _Flick._

The fiend angelic gathered his composure again almost immediately, except this time with a more intent look, ‘Good to know that you enjoyed my sense of humour. In the spirit of fairness you must allow me this question, however. Why did you shut Jack outside your mind now when you were unable to revoke the permission for so long?’ _Riposte._

And suddenly Will could not find an adequate reply. Was he trying to protect Hannibal? Hardly. The only way to bring the man to justice would be an elaborate trap whose lure was a false promise distracting enough. A lethal repercussion would be promised for all those who had taken even just one glimpse at the truth.

With the bliss of ignorance the few of them might just survive by the skin of their teeth, though the same could not be extended to himself, apparently.

Every accumulated second spent in silence would only expose more of Will’s weakness, metaphorically baring his throat. Watching motes of gold sinking into Hannibal’s obsidian eyes, Will retaliated clumsily in hindsight, ‘I don’t have to allow you anything, Hannibal. But since you seem to be interested enough to drive all the way up here for it: I was planning to leave the country is why.’ There, another blatant lie, an idea Will had at best given a cursory thought about when Jack last came around. But now the image solidified in the room through the power of words, it somehow became an appealing perspective.

A below subpar closure, but a closure, at least.

  
~*~

Now Hannibal was genuinely surprised for the first time since his unannounced visit. Among many traits of Will, he was most familiar with the stubbornness that contributed substantially towards Hannibal’s orchestration. Part of Will was certainly desperate to get rid of him once and forever at all cost but something that was not entirely fear reined the impulsivity in. Understandable may it be that the forced incarceration could be traumatising, though nothing comparable to what he had seen within Will, it was still unnatural for the former profiler to have the intention of abandoning the game they had just started, or even of running away.

‘The least we could offer each other in this conversation is honesty.’ Hannibal leaned in, placing the elbows on his protruding knees in order to pressure the feigned veneer of impatience in those sternly blue eyes away. How brilliant those eyes are, as if a tempest set ablaze, he thought to himself. Even if Will was scheming behind him after abandoning the FBI, Hannibal considered himself deserving of a less humiliating lie.

Will nearly snarled at this accusation, knuckles turning white as he gripped the worn gray fabric of the chair, ‘Don’t get me even started on honesty, Hannibal. You owe me more than truth, but at this point I really don’t care enough to start lying.’ _L'attaque au fer._

'In some respect you could be right,’ Hannibal carefully examined the rage, ‘though I must say avoidance is never a solution to indecision. What do you wish to achieve by abandoning your past physically knowing you could never be devoid of it in your mind? Aren’t you curious about what will happen, Will?’ _Beat._

Will closed his eyes, temporarily shedding away from Hannibal’s question, loosening his tight grip. Hannibal studied the skins and bones on Will’s hands, almost satin-like now from the lack of manual labour in the state hospital, colour of ivory and silk. He could still spot an almost invisible blemish where needles were repeatedly inserted then removed by unskillful hands, the sight of which renewed his disdain at Chilton. The man would thoroughly deserve every single second for this in his own institution. So would Matthew Brown who dared to covet after a divine creation he could never grasp yet of whom he declared himself an ally. He mused about sending in a resume for the now vacant position at BSHCI in the near future but shuddered at the banality of inferior madness contained within the building.

In the ensuing silence Hannibal thought about Dorian Gray murdering his most avid admirer just to conceal his corruption and iniquities. Then when he pictured Will’s fingers drenched in the scarlet of blood, he felt practically breathless. _Decus omnium decum._ Grace of all graces. Glory of all glories. He settled back again in the soft cushion, legs crossed, waiting for Will’s answer so he could dissuade him from this sudden whim that threatened to leave such beauty languishing in dust.

 _But what if Will had truly decided to leave this?_ Hannibal frowned immediately when a grain of doubt laid assault on his mind. The train of thought seemed to evade the grip of will and developed reason of its own. Avoidance, though serving no practical value, had been a useful emotional tool for thousands of years. Oedipus of Thebes was an adequate-enough example among countless others, wandering the earth blind in self-imposed exile.

For the past two months or so he had been anticipating a move from Will with an undeniable excitement. Hannibal wondered if Will knew apart from harvesting the fruit of his labour with rightfully deserved joy (such an elegant madness fuelled by encephalitis), he eventually found himself haunted by a sense of loss, slipping dangerously close to nihilism as his immaculate routine stopped being delightful. The descent did not last long, thankfully, when Will sent Mr. Brown after him. At the brink of the swimming pool he stared into the pale chlorinated water and painted himself a death where he drowned in an ocean the colour of Will’s eyes, heart of light and shades of thunder. They would both be the sacrifice to Will’s brief but glorious ascension.

During his operation afterwards Hannibal thought about all the attention he received in his life so far, morphing into an indistinguishable matter of fear, jealousy, admiration, and curiosity like a thousand miniature spotlights trying to peer through his suit. And none was as intoxicating as having Will’s mind focusing on him with such intensity that the said man executed a murder from underground, having nothing at his disposal but words. The reciprocation made his heart sing in joy, revitalised all the desiccated passion over years of suffocating boredom, or more accurately, loneliness. It was then he saw to the urgency of rescuing Will from the needle - such an unbecoming ending - as he craved his company more than anything since the death of Grentz. The powerful sense of relief when the beautiful man was freed by his own hand had almost brought tears to his eyes every time he relived the moment. A magnificent beast was clawing through the cage, its iron chrysalis.

Here and now he took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of burnt woods, gunpowder and Will’s shampoo. Somewhere Hannibal was convinced he saw a flare at the back of his eyes.

Then he sensed Will’s contemplative look again, and arranged his own expression accordingly into neutral calmness, ‘It seems like you are ready to brief me with more details.’

Will remained quiet for a few more moments and determinedly preserved eye contact this time. The living room was now filled with the occasional yawning of dogs hurdled at one corner and the cackling of flames. Hannibal’s heart sank a little when the confusion or hatred he was complacently expecting was missing. His words were met instead with the dangerously steady flow beneath the frozen surface of a river.

Abruptly Will came back to his feet, casting a shadow over Hannibal that made it appear as if he was looming over. He smiled, accentuating his charm with a fiery outline, and Hannibal was mesmerised by this rare show of happiness, inauspiciously foreboding as it was. It fit Will, painfully so.

In the same enchanted quietness Hannibal watched as Will stepped away while speaking, ‘I thought about what it would feel like,’ he gestured, drawing invisible lines across the living room, a web trapping Hannibal inside, ‘when I relinquished all this.’

He got to the front door in a few almost leisurely strides and pushed down the worn brass handle, welcoming the rush of night with open shoulders, ‘It would be better than anything.’

The sound of it alarmed Hannibal unnecessarily, much more than when Will appeared in front of him for the first time in months with a gun and bathed by indignation. He had theorised different motives as to why Will had remained quiet ever since the court hearing, and each possibility was equally amusing. He needed the trepidation and hint of blade in the dark that accompanied Will’s very existence. _Oh only if he could know how he unsettled Hannibal tremendously and unexpectedly since their first meeting_. That constant threat of hope for Will to know him, to understand and accept the concept of _them_ , a destined union beyond the weightless luster stifling the rest of the world. The danger of the calmness before the storm, the unpredictability of looming thunder on a perfectly sunny spring afternoon all but left Hannibal more and more intrigued as time passed.

But never had he envisioned such a bathos, an enjambment followed by lacuna. Disliking how the situation seemed to be spiralling into an unknown direction accessible only to Will’s mind, Hannibal too followed up, and in a rare second of hesitance eventually brought his coat with him.

When he was standing by Will’s side, Hannibal watched the darkness beyond the aura of light that flowed down from the veranda. From afar he could recognise the band of floating sparkles that belonged to the nearest highway, and again remembered Will’s metaphor of fog and boat that seemed a lifetime ago. Those cerulean eyes now lost to the frost outside.

‘There is virtue in forgetting, don’t you agree?’ remarked Will. Hannibal considered it, ruminating on his own response.

When their eyes met again, in the sfumato of blaze and shadow, Hannibal too understood why the whimsical plan that was barely a flimsy defence a few minutes earlier would be the most damning retribution. Will knew. He knew that beyond all the florid ruses and ploys Hannibal wished for his acceptance, and his alone. Now when all was done to his heart’s content, that Will had surrendered his justice, the one thing that would wound Hannibal more gravely than any physical torture would be the oblivion. Perhaps his greatest fear, Hannibal thought to himself, and marvelled at the acute insight Will had gleaned from this encounter, rose above the situation and element of surprise.

‘So we have moved past apology and forgiveness.’ The night had darkened as if the ghosts of clouds threatened to rain ink, tainting the silvery whiteness of frozen soil into a luminicious black. Sensing the evening had come to an unexpected conclusion, Hannibal obediently stepped into the other side of the threshold. Buster, out of all, ventured forward and produced a whining sound at his departure. It looked up alternatively at the two men to no avail. ‘We shall meet again, then, if the chance presents itself.’

‘Goodbye, Hannibal.’ With that said, the door was shut and locked behind Hannibal. The bereavement of heat hardly bothered him, yet still there was something akin to hurt taking shape inside his ribcage, a sense so foreign that he decided to revisit the moment at some point in the future. Accompanying each of Hannibal’s steps, nonetheless, a new plan came into light on the starless night when he thought about the blood icicle clinging to the roof of a truck like molten ruby. Hannibal congratulated himself silently, deciding that tonight’s venture was not fruitless, after all.

~*~

Will shushed his dogs as he listened to the sound of Hannibal’s car pulling away and did not move away from the door until the headlight was buried by the world outside, the glaring eyes of a beast. Somehow he could feel when Hannibal turned back and watched his house for a while before the man took his leave. He ran the palm over his forehead to wipe away the sweat that was not there, and sank back onto his bed accompanied by a squeak from the spring.

Like all people who planned to make a decision but never believed in the moment of actualisation, Will descended into a state of trance with chilling perspicuity after all the theatricity. His treacherous mind played out the future, spinning and screaming to drag it into reality with the past strewn seamlessly into it like a grotesque tapestry. All his thoughts and senses were amplified to the point where they became another person. For a while Will entertained the possibility of starting to talk to the empty room, finally conceding to his lunacy.

He stared into the crack of the floor that seemed to widen as second passed, and saw at the bottom of it another reality, one where he pulled the trigger. The bullet entered between the arch of these pale eyebrows in a clean shot and fireworks of blood splayed out behind him. They landed on the walls like rains of pomegranate seeds.

Would Hannibal bear a look of shock? Probably not. The expression of the corpse would be as composed and observing as when it was alive and standing, soulless eyes searching for constellations on the pale plaster of the living room’s ceiling. A solemness akin to the hollow stare and striking posture of the Artemision Zeus. _Regards, regards, il vivra!_

And from the distant depth of an ocean enshrined by bones, eyes and corals rose three statues, eyes and lips tainted vermilion. The first a daughter, golden meanders etched around her neck, palms held together into a prayer by a fish hook. The second a friend, hair the colour of mahogany, forever casting her gaze into the heart of truth, her tongue missing from the gaping mouth, a stone heart lying beside her feet, cold and lifeless.

The last one was faceless, all of its features corroded away by water and wind except for the remnant of paints visible through the hull of soot and sand. When Will reached for it in his mind the statue cried both in agony and in rapture, in fear and in euphoria. It collapsed into nothing but silence and ash in his hand, a liquid warmth.

 _See._ His shadow smiled and reached for him. There was no telling where he ended and where the other began.

_Mon semblable, mon frère!_

When he retracted his mind from the motley of visions, Will could see his room again with all its familiarity. The dwindling flame drowned into a smothering smoke of heat in his chest; his face now adorned by trails of tears and framed by the same tranquility again like when he decided to sever Hannibal from his life. Even more so now the conjecture glowed into knowledge.

Wind crept in under the door and sank.

By the time dawn had conjured up morning mist outside his window, Will carefully folded a piece of paper, now loaded with words, and enclosed it inside a pale yellow envelope. He contemplated the sight of it, and eventually wrote, with a rueful smile, on the unoccupied blankness: ‘Burn after reading.’ A large suitcase packed with clothes, books, and miscellaneous items that he would likely be needing on a trip laid open on his bed.

The time was 7:06:23 a.m., 18th December, he read on the surface of his electronic clock. A rough sigh left his chest when he trudged into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. It was going to be a long day ahead but he had to rush, as the window of opportunity was diminishing in place he could not see.

~*~

  
19th December, five days until Christmas Eve.

The morning saw Will travelling thirty minutes through the snow in a van borrowed from his neighbour to the animal shelter he had visited a few times before. There he hugged his furry friends goodbye as they were led away. Part of him almost teared up but at the end he merely closed his eyes, mapping their sound and warmth and storing those with the coursing autumn river in his mind. The manager of the shelter promised that when he got back from his long holiday, he would be more than welcomed to have them back if they were not adopted by then. He also happened to be an over-enthusiastic reader of Freddie’s recent articles on the Ripper case, and was vaguely melodramatic in his expression of sympathy for Will.

‘The bastard got shot in the head by that poor agent during interrogation. Miriam Lass, isn’t it? Chances are he’s not gonna wake up from the coma or so I heard.’ As he handed the papers for Will to sign, the man proudly demonstrated his up-to-date knowledge on the theatrical fate of one of the country’s most prolific serial killers. Will listened, lowered his head a little with the excuse of fixing his glasses to hide his disdain from plain sight. He should not resent the man’s ignorance, but still he did not have a taste for a blatant show of it, especially when the whole scenario was entwined too tightly with his own life. In the end he chose to wear a polite smile before leaving with a curt ‘thank you’ that may or may not have masked his annoyance, which would be none of his concern.

With a one-month trip planned, Will had already spent yesterday washing and waxing his car, filling up the gas tank before storing the vehicle away. A cab should be waiting for him when he has finished the last item on his to-do list before taking departure. Airport parking lot was a notorious nightmare on many different levels which he would like to avoid, not to mention leaving behind an unctuous trace for the future. Most likely, however, he would be away for much, much longer than four weeks.

Will folded away the dog blankets first when he got back into the vehicle, stuffing them inside a large duffle bag. Mr. Richie’s rheumatism would make cleaning the interior a nightmare during this season, and he did not want to trouble the man more than he already did with animal hairs. When that’s done, he buckled his seat belt, and checked the time on his phone.

1:30p.m., which means that Hannibal should be at his clinic seeing patients as it was a workday. In a panicked moment he thought he had forgotten the thing, and only released the hitched breath when he recovered the envelope from beneath the clump of scarf and coat which he had not bothered to bring along just now. Suddenly he laughed quietly to himself, finding it ironically hilarious if on his quest to banish the man into the river of Lethe he ignored the token.

But he could not help but remember what Hannibal said the other night, and knew, to his deep exasperation, that he was right. The escape from indecision usually served no benefit. He would probably be able to forget (would he?), or eventually would gather up enough resolution to come back for what he had started to plan in the silence of night with the rattling of mice and cockroaches echoing down the hallway of BSHCI.

 _Must it be so?_ He wondered. Then answered his own doubt with _it could not have been otherwise._

Ahead of him the frozen road stretched out into distance unseen and untravelled, and with a twist of key the engine came back to life with a roar sending a flock of nameless birds into the sky.

~*~

_I have always, believe me or not, found our current situation quite amusing in its own way. All the twists and turns of events slot themselves into an invisible grand plan before either of us could notice. Your own version of the game was merely a part whose significance remained yet to be determined, the same could be said of my diseased mind and crumpling mentality. Perhaps you did give it a long-needed nudge, I would grant you that._

_Have you ever wondered why I hadn’t put a bullet through your head (on both occasions, one of them refreshingly recent as well)? I might still do it, one day, when the timing is right. But for now the world as I see it was too conjoined with yours such that to deny you your life I would have no valid ground to hold onto my own. Reason and madness converged on this matter. Was there ever a difference though? Or that such distinction should not be applied at all when it comes down to what lies at the heart of this relationship, let’s call it that. I think you might also appreciate dependency as an alternative, even kinship. Being pedantic is as petty as it can be, so I’ll leave this to you since it bothers me little at the end._

_You wrote your life as a carefully preordained tragedy, with all its force and sobriety, the cruel beauty of fate. Every single corpse you have slain rises as caryatids and columns of a treasury. To what god did you offer your sacrifices? It must be someone unexpected in your life, contradicting all your harsh expectations of human nature. You could not save him (her?) then, and no one can raise dead back into life. In any form, let me remind you as well. Did you find it in Abigail? I am rather content to know that you will continue to suffer from this until the end of time, given what happened. How long would you be able to put up with it, this castle of bones that had become your own prison, where all you hear is your own echo for so long? Guess we will see._

_I will be long gone when this reaches you. And you will excuse my hasty departure, will you not? We have pried too intently into each other to believe that neither of us would try to wrestle for power after the fiasco at establishing a new norm. Remember the time you (in hindsight) admitted that you have long since inhabited in the land of dead? We will both remain alone there because I will make sure of that. In your case more unbearably so than mine, don’t you think?_

_Will I think about you? Just as much as you have thought about me. Will I miss you? Probably not. We were in each other’s life long before Jack or Garret Jacob Hobbs since the boundary between past and future was blurred for us. And I do wonder if we will survive the separation._

_W.G._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Please leave any thoughts about how you might want to see the story continue in the comment, as well as other general stuffs :))) I started this piece of writing three months ago & for now it feels like it has ended where it should be. But maybe some day I'll come back to it!
> 
> Otherwise I do take prompts so if there's anything you'd like me to write, drop it in the comment section! xx 
> 
> Wow people are actually reading it?? Thanks for all the kudos and comments❤️


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